


Unspoken

by flootzavut



Series: I Get Off [1]
Category: NCIS
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Exhibitionism, F/M, Kibbs, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-13 07:53:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4513992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flootzavut/pseuds/flootzavut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kate is aware that Gibbs is watching her... and she likes it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unspoken

**Author's Note:**

> So, the lovely PhoenixRising360, who is a terrible influence (for which ❤️❤️❤️) suggested this song as inspiration/a prompt for a Kibbs story.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=naIT6XfsjAw
> 
> (Halestorm - I Get Off)
> 
> I scribbled a few sentences down, because HELLO irresistible scenario, and then when I went back to listen again, WHOOPS have a whole story. So here it is.
> 
> And it even has a followup, which (amazingly) is _less_ smutty.
> 
> (I know. I think my muse must be ill...)

She's not sure if Gibbs realises she can see him. He's watching her, but she's also now watching him, and quite deliberately touching herself for his benefit as well as hers. Sitting in the window seat has been a habit for a long time, though doing so naked is a fairly recent development. As for getting off, well it was supposed to be a one time thing, when she was feeling naughty and adventurous and like she needed a little extra spice in her love life (especially since the only affair she can seem to keep intact these days is the one with her own hands). It was fun, but she hadn't planned to repeat it.

But then Gibbs had turned up outside her window one evening, looking a whole lot more obvious than he apparently realised, and the temptation to touch herself _for him_ had been... irresistible.

The next day at work he'd turned an unintentionally (she _thinks..._ ) heated look on her and she'd saturated her panties with nary a by your leave. She's never gotten turned on so fast in her whole life, and they were both fully dressed and he was several feet away at the time.

Tonight she'd settled in to let the damp of the shower evaporate off her body, and she'd looked out, and there was Gibbs again, leaning against a tree across from her apartment building, partially obscured by the thick spring foliage but not as well as he might think.

With barely a conscious thought, she'd let her hands slide down her ribcage, over her breasts, and now she has two fingers up inside her as far as they'll go, her thumb teasing her clit, and her other hand is skimming over her skin as she imagines it's _him_ touching her, imagines what he'd do and how it would feel. It's been her fantasy of choice since the cramped little bathroom on Air Force One, but it's _so_ much better when she knows the real deal is staring at her.

It's both torturous and sublime knowing the owner of _those_ _hands_ is watching her, that _those_ _hands_ are likely clenched into desperate fists in his pockets, struggling with temptation. That _those_ _hands_ will be going home and jerking him off in his shower to the image of what she's doing right now.

The thought makes her back arch and her eyes slip closed as she alternately imagines him touching her and touching himself. She's been slammed to the floor and bodily shoved one way or another enough times, even, on one memorable occasion, fallen full length against him during that sub's emergency blow; she _knows_ he's packing heat in those less than flattering pants he wears. It's not hard to conjure an image of him handling himself, handling her, and she moans at the idea of watching him, of maybe joining in, of having him heft her up against the wall then just insistently pushing into her waiting body with one of those satisfied smirks on his face.

"Oh, God."

She'll be going to confession this week. Impure thoughts aren't the half of it. She's never quite been able to stifle the part of her that requires her to atone for her sins, but it doesn't stop her sweetly sinning in the meantime.

She'll find a church where the priest is a stranger, and she'll confess she's half in love with her boss and she doesn't know what to do with herself, and the only outlet she's been able to find is to masturbate for him through the window which, yes, does look out on the street and leave her vulnerable to other voyeurs, and she'll leave Father Whoever blushing and hard in his own confessional because she is, apparently, an unrepentant bad girl, no matter how much she protests to the contrary.

She's got one knee cocked and the other leg spread wide, and she's not certain just how good or bad Gibbs' eyesight really is, but she sure hopes he can see she's glistening and dripping for his viewing pleasure. She wishes she had the guts to slip a robe on, go down outside and ask him, with a coyly inviting look, if he wouldn't rather come inside where it's warm (and wet and welcoming).

It occurs to her, in the mess of thoughts rushing through her head as she builds towards her climax, that maybe he knows; he's not stupid, it's entirely possible he's standing there fully aware she's seen him, knows this little show is for his benefit, and the idea tips her over the edge and she shudders and cries out as she comes. She has the window open a crack on this mild spring night, and she hopes he heard. _Wouldn't you like me to gasp in your ear, Gibbs?_

When she's recovered a little, she slowly gets up, kneels up on the seat to close the window, her nipples grazing the cool glass, then stretches languidly, limber as a dancer and knowing he'll gulp, loudly, as he does even when she's dressed and she folds herself in half and displays just how flexible she is.

She wonders again if this is a temporary aberration, or if he's psyching himself up to come knock on her door and ask if she'd consider breaking rule twelve with him and then jumping up and down on the pieces. She hopes it's the latter, and if he doesn't give in soon, she might. Next time, she promises herself (and she both hopes and fears there _will_ be a next time), she'll gather up all her courage and go out there to invite him in.

Or maybe the time after. Soon.

In the meantime she glances down at the street just to check - and yes, he's still there, and it's absurd how much it pleases her - turns her back on him for one last stretch and a wiggle of her butt, and then heads reluctantly for her lonely bed.


End file.
